Glass 7° 3 



Book / 



PRESENTED 



/ 




SCHILLER'S SONG OF THE BELL: 

WITH OTHER 

POEMS FROM THE GERMAN. 



SCHILLER'S 



SONG OF THE BELL 



A NEW TRANSLATION 



BY 



W. H. FURNESS. 



POEMS AND BALLADS 

§mfyt f Irljilbr, cuft (Dtjurs, 



BY 



F. H. HEDGE. 



PHILADELPHIA 
HAZARD AND MITCHELL 

178 CHESNUT STREET 

1850 



Messrs. Hazard and Mitchell, 

GENTLEMEN; 

As you propose 

to publish The Song of the Bell in English, I beg leave 
to recommend that you enhance the value of the little 
volume by the addition of a few very " Gems of Trans- 
lation/' by Eev. Fe H. Hedge, of Bangor (Maine). I 
know of no instances in which the sentiment and music 
of the original have been transferred to another lan- 
guage with so little loss. 

Yours truly, 

W. H. Furness. 

February, 1850. 



(3D 



* 



CONTENTS. 

THE SONG OP THE BELL, SCHILLER. 

THE ERL KING, GOETHE. 

THE SINGER, GOETHE. 

SPIRIT-GREETING, GOETHE. 

THE SONG OF THE ANGELS, (FAUST,) . . GOETHE. 

THE DREAM, UHLAND. 

THE PILGRIM, . . . SCHILLER. 

LUTZOW's WILD CHASE, KORNER. 



THE SONG OF THE BELL. 



(9) 



PREFACE. 



The poetry of this poem has been made familiar to 
English readers rather by the Outlines of Retzsch and 
the music of Romberg, than by any translation that has 
yet been published. The attempt to translate this, or 
any genuine poem, from one language to another, is a 
very formidable one. In the present case, translators, 
despairing apparently of everything that might be pro- 
nounced success, seem to have satisfied themselves with 
a very remote approximation to the beauty of the ori- 
ginal. They appear to have been thankful to get through 
with the work anyhow. Although not without their feli- 
cities, yqt in no one of the four translations which we 
have seen — two published in this country and two in 
England — does the design seem to have been cherished 
of preserving in the English the varied music of the 
German. The double rhymes have been continually 
neglected. In the following translation, while the closest 
adherence has been attempted to the letter, the aim has 
been to convey some idea of the music of the original. 

(ii) 



12 



PREFACE. 



As the present translator, in presuming thus to pass 
judgment on his predecessors, betrays perhaps an undue 
appreciation of his own success, he wishes to remark, ex 
gratia modestzse, that, as one of the greatest perils to a 
translator of poetry arises from the excitement, in the 
course of his labour, of his own poetical faculty, whereby 
he is constantly liable to mistake, amidst the thick-com- 
ing fancies which the original starts, his own vivid images 
for the thoughts of the poet, it follows that he, who has 
barely enough of the poetical sentiment to enable him 
to have some appreciation of the work he undertakes to 
translate, may, on this account, have a better chance of 
success than others of a higher poetical temperament. 

It is observable that the latter part of the Song of the 
Bell was composed by the lurid light of the old French 
Revolution, from which so many of the first men of the 
time, Burke, for instance, like Schiller, " shrunk almost 
blinded by the glare." 



THE 



SONG OF THE BELL. 



Vivos voco. Mortuos plango. Fulgura frango.* 

See the mould, of clay well heated, 
In the earth wall'd firmly, stand. 
Be the Bell to-day created! 
Come, my comrades, be at hand! 

From the glowing brow, 

Sweat must freely flow. 
So the work the master showeth ; 
Yet the blessing Heaven bestoweth. 

* The meaning of this oid motto for a bell is obvious enough, with the 
exception of the last clause — " I call the living — I mourn the dead — / 
break the lightnings.'''' " It is said," remarks Mrs. Jamieson, in her recent 
very beautiful work on Sacred and Legendary Art, quoting from Duran- 
dus, " that the wicked spirits that be in the region of the air fear much 
when they hear the bells ringen ; and this is the cause why the bells be 
ringen when it thundereth ; to the end that the foul fiend and wicked 
spirits should be abashed and flee, and cease from moving of the 
tempest." 

2 < 13 ) 



Schiller's 

The work, we earnestly are doing, 
Befitteth well an earnest word; 
Then Toil goes on, more briskly flowing, 
When good discourse is also heard. 
So let us then with care now ponder 
What through weak strength originates ; 
To him no rev'rence can we render, 
Who never heeds what he creates. 
'Tis this indeed that man most graceth 3 
For this 'tis his to understand, 
That in his inner heart he traceth, 
What he produces with his hand. 

Take the wood, from pine trunks riven^ 
Dry it must be through and through, 
That the flame, straight inward driven^ 
Fiercely strike into the flue ! 

Boil the copper now ! 

Quick the tin add too, 
That the thick bell-metal flowing, 
Through the mould be rightly going. 

What in the pit, by help of fire, 
The hand of man is forming thus, 
High in the belfry of the spire, 
There will it tell aloud of us. 
Still will it last while years are rollings 
And many hearts by it be stirred, 



SONG OF THE BELL. 



With all the mourner's woes condoling, 
And with Devotion's choir accord. 
Whate'er this changing life is bringing, 
Here deep below, to Earth's frail son, 
Strikes on this metal crown, which, ringing, 
Will monitory sound it on. 

Bubbles white I see are starting; 
Good ! the mass is fluid now. 
Through it let the salts be darting, 
Which promote its speedy flow. 

Clean too from the scum 

Must the mixture come, 
That, composed of metal merely, 
Full the Bell may sound, and clearly. 

For with Joy's festive music ringing, 
The child beloved it soon will greet 
Upon his life's first walk, beginning 
In the soft arms of Slumber sweet;* 
For him rest yet in Time's dark bosom 
Funereal wreath and joyous blossom ; 
A mother's tender cares adorning 
With watchful love his golden morning — 
The years — they fly like arrows fleet. 

* The allusion here is to the custom of carrying tlio child to church, 
few days after birth, to be christened. See Retzsch's Outlines, No. 6. 



SCHILLER'S 



The maiden's plays the proud boy scorneth, 

He rushes forth, the world to roam 

With pilgrim's staff, at last returneth, 

A stranger in his father's home. 

And brilliant, in her youthful splendor, 

Like creature, come from heaven's height, 

With cheeks all mantling, modest, tender, 

The maiden stands before his sight. 

A nameless longing then is waking 

In the youth's heart ; he goes alone ; 

The tears from out his eyes are breaking; 

Joy in his brothers' sports is flown. 

He blushes as her steps he traces, 

Her greeting smile his heart elates, 

For fairest flowers the fields he searches, 

Wherewith his love he decorates. 

tender longing, hope the sweetest, 

The golden time of young first love, 

The eye beholdeth heaven unveiling, 

Riots the heart in bliss above ! 

that, for ever fair and vernal, 

Love's beauteous season were eternal ! 



See how brown the pipes are getting! 
This little rod I dip it in, 
If it show a glazed coating, 
Then the casting may begin. 



SONG OF THE BELL. 



17 



Now, my lads, enough ! 

Prove me now the stuff, 
The brittle with the tough combining, 
See if they be rightly joining. 

For when the Strong and Mild are pairing, 
The Manly with the Tender sharing, 
Then is the concord good and strong. 
See ye, who join in endless union, 
If heart with heart be in communion! 
For Fancy's brief, Repentance long. 
Lovely in her ringlets straying 
Is the wreath that crowns the bride, 
TVhen the merry church-bells playing 
Call to pleasure far and wide. 
Ah ! the hour of life most festal 
Ends the May of Life also, 
With the veil and girdle vestal 
Breaks the lovelv charm in two. 
The passion it flies, 
Love must be enduring. 
The flower it dies, 
Fruit is maturing. 
The man must be out 
In hostile life toiling, 
Be toiling and moiling, 
And planting, obtaining, 
Devising and gaining, 

2 * 



SCHILLER'S 



And daring, enduring, 
So fortune securing ; 

Then streaineth in wealth, all untold in its mea- 
sure, 

And filled is the garner with costliest treasure; 

The chambers increase, the house it spreads out. 

And in it presides 

The chaste gentle housewife, 

The mother of children, 

And ruleth wisely 

The circle domestic, 

And teacheth the maidens. 

The boys she restraineth, 

And keeps ever moving 

Hands busy and loving, 

And adds to the gains 

"With ordering pains. 

And sweet-scented presses with treasure is filling. 
And thread round the swift humming spindle is 
reeling, 

And the neat burnished chests — she gathers them 
full 

Of linen snow-white, and of glistering wool, 
And adds to the useful the beautiful ever 
And resteth never. 

And the father with look elate 
From the high, far-seeing gable 



SONG OF THE BELL. 



19 



Surveys his blooming, broad estate, 
Seeth his buildings forest-like growing,* 
And the barns with their lofts o'erflowing, 
And the granaries, bent with the blessing, 
And the corn as it waves unceasing; 
Boasts he with pride-lit face : 
Firm as the Earth's own base 
'Gainst all misfortune's might 
Stand now my riches bright ! 
Yet with thy great laws, heaven, 
Can no endless bond be woven. 
And Misfortune strideth fast. 



Be the casting now beginning ; 
Finely jagged is the grain. 
But before we set it running, 
Let us breathe a pious strain. 

Let the metal go ! — 

God protect us now ! 

* This line is obscure in the original. Literally : " Seeth the project- 
ing beams (or trees) of the pillars." Perhaps the line is elucidated by 
reference to the method of constructing the outhouses on German farms. 
It is said that the framework is left visible, and the pillars or supporters; 
the spaces between which are filled in with bricks or stone, bear a re- 
semblance to trees. See Retzsch's Outlines, No. 26. Whatever may be 
the precise meaning of the line, Schiller probably intended to describe 
the farmer as taking satisfaction in the number and substantial character 
of his outhouses. 



SCHILLER'S 



Through the bending handle hollow 
Smoking shoots the fire-brown billow. 

Benignant is the might of Flame, 
When man keeps watch and makes it tame. 
In what he fashions, what he makes, 
Help from this heaven's force he takes. 
But fearful is this heaven's force, 
When all unfetter' d in its course. 
It steps forth on its own fierce way, 
Thy daughter, Nature, wild and free. 
Wo ! when once emancipated, 
With nought her power to withstand, 
Through the streets thick populated, 
Waves she high her monstrous brand! 
By the elements is hated 
What is formed by mortal hand. 
From the heavens 
Blessings pour, 
Streams the shower ; 
From the heavens, all the same. 
Lightnings gleam. 

Dost hear it from the tower moan? 

'Tis th' alarm! 

Blood-red now 

Heaven is flushing ; 

That is not the daylight's glow! 

What a rushing, 



SONG OF THE BELL. 



Streets all up ! 
Smoke rolls up ! 

Flick'ring mounts the fire-column, 

Through the long streets onward growin 

Going swift as winds are going; 

As from out a furnace rushing, 

Glows the air, and beams are crashing, 

Pillars tumble, children crying, 

Windows breaking, mothers flying, 

'Mid the ruin 

Beasts are lowing; 

All is fleeing, saving, running, 

Light as day the night 's becoming ; 

Through the chain of hands, all vying, 

Swiftly flying, 

Goes the bucket ; bow-like bending, 
Spouts the water, high ascending. 
Howling comes the blast, befriending 
The flame it roaring seeks and fans. 
Crackling 'midst the well-dried grains, 
Seizing on the gran'ry chambers, 
And the dry wood of the timbers, 
And, as if it would, in blowing, 
Tear the huge bulk of the world 
With it, in its flight uphuii'd, 
Mounts the flame to heaven, growing 
Giant tall! 
Hopeless all, 



Schiller's 



Man to God at last hath yielded, 
Idly sees what he hath builded, 
Wond'ring, to destruction going. 

All burnt out 
Are the places, 

Where the tempest wild reposes. 
In the hollow windows dreary, 
Horror 's sitting, 

And the clouds of heaven, flitting 
High, look in. 

Ere he goes, 
On the ashes, 
Where his riches 

Buried lie, one look man throws — 
His pilgrim's staff then gladly clutches. 
Whate'er the fire from him has torn, 
One comfort sweet is ever nearest, 
The heads he counteth of his dearest, 
And lo ! not one dear head is gone. 



Earth our work is now entombing, 
And the mould is filled right well ; 
Will it, fair to light forthcoming, 
Recompense our pains and skill? 



SONG OF THE BELL. 



If the casting crack? 

If the mould should break? 
Ah ! perhaps, while we have waited, 
Mischief hath its work completed. 

To holy Earth's dark, silent bosom 
We our handiwork resign, 
The husbandmen the seed consign, 
And hope that it will swell and blossom 
And bless the sower, by laws divine. 
Still costlier seed, in sorrow bringing, 
We hide within the lap of earth, 
And hope that, from the coffin springing, 
'Twill bloom in brighter beauty forth. 

From the tower, 
Heavy, slow, 
Tolls the fun'ral 
Note of wo. 

Sad and solemn, with its knell attending 
Some new wand'rer, on the last way wendin 

Ah ! the wife it is, the dear one, 
Ah ! it is the faithful mother, 
Whom the angel dark is bearing 
From the husband's arms endearing, 
From the group of children far, 



24 



SCHILLER'S 



Whom she, blooming, to him bare. 
Whom she on her faithful breast 
Saw with joy maternal rest ; — 
Ah ! the household ties so tender 
Broken are for evermore, 
For the shadow-land now holds her, 
Who the household ruled o'er! 
For her faithful guidance ceases, 
No more keepeth watch her care, 
In the void and orphaned places 
Rules the stranger, loveless there. 

Till the bell is cool and hardened, 
Let there rest from labor be. 
And be each as free, unburdened^ 
As the bird upon the tree. 

Once the stars appear, 

From all duty clear, 
Hear the lads the vespSrs ringing; 
To the master care 's still clinging. 



Quicken'd pulse his footsteps telling 
In the wild and distant greenwood, 
Seeks the wancl'rer his dear dwelling. 
Bleating wind the sheep slow homeward, 
And the kine too, 

Broad-browed, with their smooth flanks, trooping, 



SONG OF THE BELL. 

Come in lowing, 

To the stalls accustomed going. 

Heavy in 

Rocks the wagon, 

Harvest laden. 

Bright with flowers, 

The crown towers, 

On the sheaves, 

And a band of youthful reapers 
Dances weaves. 

Street and market-place grow stiller; 
Round the light, domestic, social, 
Gather now the household inmates, 
And the city gate shuts creaking. 
Black bedighted 
Is the Earth now; 
Rest the people, unaffrighted 
By the dark, 

Which alarms the bad benighted; 

For the eye of Law doth watch and mark. 

Holy Order, rich in blessing, 
Born of Heaven, in peace unceasing 
Dwell all ranks when by her shielded. 
Mighty cities she hath builded, 
Calling the unsocial savage 
There to dwell — no more to ravage; 
To the huts of men she goeth, 

3 



SCHILLER'S 

And to gentle ways allureth, 

And dearest ties hath wov'n round us, 

Ties, that to our country bind us. 

Busy hands, by thousands stirring, 
In a lively league unite, 
And it is in fiery motion 
That all forces come to light. 
Briskly work, by Freedom guarded, 
Both the master and the men, 
Each one in his place rewarded, 
Scorning every scoffer then. 
Toil — it is our decoration, 
Work, the blessing doth command, 
Kings are honored by their station, 
Honors us the toil-worn hand. 

Peace, thou gentle 
Sweetest grace, 
Hover, hover, 

Ever friendly round this place ! 
Never may that day be dawning 
When the horrid sounds of battle 
Through this silent vale shall rattle; 
When the heavens, 
Which, with evening blushing mildly, 
Softly beam, 



SONG OF THE BELL. 

Shall with flames consuming wildly 
Town and cities, fearful gleam ! 



Break me up the useless structure, 
It has now fulfill' d its part, 
That the work, without a fracture, 
Joy may give to eye and heart. 
Swing the hammer, swing, 
Till the top shall spring ! 
When to light the bell arises, 
First the mould we break in pieces. 



The master wise alone is knowing 
Just when the mould should broken be, 
But wo ! if streams of fire flowing, 
The glowing ore itself sets free ! 
Blind raging, with the crash of thunder, 
It shivers the exploded house, 
As if hell's jaws had yawned asunder, 
Destruction far and wide it throws. 
When brutal force is senseless storming, 
There can no perfect work be forming ; 
When nations seek themselves to free, 
There can no common welfare be. 



Wo ! if heaped up, the fire-tinder 
Should the still heart of cities fill, 



schillee's 

Their fetters rending all asunder, 
The people work then their own will! 
Then at the bell-ropes tuggeth Riot, 
The bell gives forth a wailing sound, 
Sacred to peace alone and quiet, 
For blood it rings the signal round. 

" Equality and Freedom" howling, 
Rushes to arms the citizen, 
And bloody-minded bands are prowling, 
And streets and halls are filled with men; 
Then women to hyenas changing, 
On bloody horrors feast and laugh, 
And, with the thirst of panthers ranging, 
The blood of hearts yet quiv'ring quaff. 
Nought sacred is there more, for breaking 
Are all the bands of pious Awe, 
The good man's place, the bad are taking, 
And Vice acknowledges no law. 
'Tis dangerous to rouse the lion, 
Deadly to cross the tiger's path, 
But the most terrible of terrors, 
Is man himself in his wild wrath. 
Alas ! when to the ever blinded 
The heavenly torch of Light is lent ! 
It guides him not, it can but kindle 
Whole states in flames and ruin blent. 



SONG OF THE BELL. 



Joy to me now God hath given ! 
See ye ! like a golden star, 
From the shell, all bright and even, 
Comes the metal-kernel clear. 
Bright from top to rim, 
Like the sun's own beam. 
E'en the 'scutcheon, formed completely, 
Shows its maker worketh neatly. 



Come all ! come all ! 
My comrades, stand around and listen, 
While solemnly our work we christen ! 
Concordia we the Bell will call. 
To harmony, by heartfelt love united, 
May all be ever by its voice invited. 

And this its office be henceforth, 
Whereto the master gave it birth: 
High, this low earthly being over, 
Shall it, in heaven's blue, spacious tent, 
The neighbor of the thunder, hover, 
And border on the firmament. 
And let it be a voice from Heaven, 
Joined with the starry host afar, 
By which high praise to God is given, 
And which lead on the crowned year. 
And be its metal mouth devoted 
3* 



Schiller's song of the bell. 

Only to grave and solemn things, 
And hourly, Time, still onward flying, 
Shall touch it with his rapid wings. 
To Destiny a tongue affording, 
Heartless itself, befall what may, 
It feels for none, yet shall its swinging 
Accompany Life's changeful play. 
And as away its music fadeth, 
That strikes so grandly on the ear, 
So may it teach that nought abideth, 
That all things earthly disappear. 

With the strength the rope is lending, 
From the pit, the Bell now draw, 
To the realms of Sound ascending, 
Let it in the ether soar! 

Ply the tackle, ply ! — 

Now it mounts on high ! 
Joy to us may it betoken, 
Peace^ the first sound by it spoken. 



THE ERL KING. 



FROM GOETHE. 

"Who rideth so late through the night-wind wild ? 

It is the father with his child; 

He has the little one well in his arm ; 

He holds him safe, and he folds him warm. 

My son, why hidest thy face so shy ? — 
Seest thou not, father, the Erl-king nigh? 
The Erien king, with train and crown ? — 
I: is a wreath of mist, my son. 

" Come, lovely boy, come, go with me ; 
Such merry plays I will play with thee ; 
Many a bright flower grows on the strand, 
And my mother has many a gay garment at hand." 

My father, my father, dost thou not hear 
What the Erl-king whispers in my ear? — 
Be quiet, my darling, be quiet, my child; 
Through withered leaves the wind howls wild. 

(31) 



32 



THE EEL KING. 



" Come, lovely boy, wilt thou go with me ? 
My daughters fair shall wait on thee ; 
My daughters their nightly revels keep ; 
They'll sing, and they'll dance, and they'll rock thee 
to sleep." 

My father, my father, and seest thou not 
The Erl-king's daughters in yon dim spot ? — 
My son, my son, I see and I know 
'Tis the old gray willow that shimmers so. 

I love thee ; thy beauty has ravished my sense ; 
And, willing or not, I will carry thee hence.'' 
father, the Erl-king now puts forth his arm ! 
father, the Erl-king has done me harm ! 

The father shudders ; he hurries on ; 
And faster he holds his moaning son; 
He reaches his home with fear and dread, 
And, lo ! in his arms the child was dead. 



THE SINGER. 



FROM GOETHE. 

What strains are these before the gate? 

Upon the bridge what chorus ? 
Go, bring the minstrel hither straight, 

And let him play before us ! 
The king commands, the page retires, 
The page returns, the king requires 

The aged man to enter. 

God greet ye ! Lords and Ladies gay ! 

What -wealth of starry lustre! 
Star upon star in rich array, — 

Who names each shining cluster? 
Amid such wealth and pomp sublime 
Shut, shut, mine eyes ! this is no time 

To gaze in stupid wonder. 

He closed his eyes, he struck a chord, 
A brave old ditty played he, 

Looked boldly on each noble lord, 
And in her lap each lady. 



THE SINGER. 



The king, delighted with the strain, 
Commanded that a golden chain 
Reward the honoured singer. 

The golden chain give not to me ; 

Bestow it on thy Hitter, 
Who bears the palm of chivalry 

Where hostile lances glitter. 
Bestow it on thy Chancellor, 
And be one golden burden more, 

To other burdens added. 

My song is like the woodbird's note, 
An unbought, careless burden ; 

The lay that gushes from the throat 
Is all-sufficient guerdon. 

But might I choose, this choice were mine 

A beaker of the richest wine — 
A golden beaker bring me ! 

The beaker brought, the minstrel quaffed : 

! balmy cup of blessing, 
And blessed the house, in such a draught, 

A common boon possessing! 
When fortune smiles, then think of me, 
And thank ye Cod as heartily 

As I for this now thank ye. 



SPIRIT-GREETING. 



FROM GOETHE. 



[This little poem embodies one of the noblest conceptions in all litera- 
ture. It was written by Goethe in the hey-day of youth, while sailing 1 
down the Rhine in company with Lavater and Basedow. We may sup- 
pose the young poet passing under the brow of some old Drachenfels or 
Ehrenbreitstein, suddenly pierced with the contrast between the gray 
and motionless ruin above and the floating life beneath. He hears a 
voice from the solemn past — hoary eld and slow decay speaking to the 
u May of youth and bloom of lustyhood."] 



He stands upon the turret high, 

The hero's noble wraith, 
And to the skiff that passeth by, 

"Fair speed the voyage!" he saith. 

Behold these sinews were so strong, 
This heart so strong and wild, 

Such pith did to these bones belong, 
So high the board was piled. 

One half my life I stormed away, 

One half in rest I drew; 
And thou, thou mortal of to-day, 

Thy mortal path pursue ! 

(33) 



THE SONG OF THE ANGELS. 

FROM GOETHE* S "PAUS T." 
RAPHAEL. 

The sun in wonted wise is sounding 

With brother spheres a rival song, 
And on his destined current bounding, 

With thunder step he speeds along. 
The sight gives angels strength, though greater 

Than angels' utmost thoughts sublime. 
And all thy wondrous works, Creator, 

Still bloom as in Creation's prime. 

GrABRIEL. 

And fleetly thought, surpassing fleetly 

The earth-green pomp, is spinning round. 
There Paradise alternates sweetly 

With Night terrific and profound ; 
There foams the sea, with broad wave beating 

Against the deep cliffs' rocky base; 
And rock and sea away are fleeting 

In never-ending spheral chase. 



THE SONG OF THE ANGELS. 37 



MICHAEL, 

And storms with rival fury heaving 

From land to sea, from sea to land, 
Still, as they rave, a chain are weaving 

Of linked efficacy grand. 
There burning Desolation blazes, 

Precursor of the Thunder's way; 
But, Lord, thy servants own with praises 

The gentle movement of thy day. 



THE THREE. 

The sight gives angels strength, though greater 
Than angels' utmost thought sublime. 

And all thy wondrous works, Creator, 
Still bloom as in Creation's prime. 



4 



THE DREAM. 



FROM L . UHLAND. 

I dreamed not long ago 

I stood on a rocky steep, — 

On a cliff by the ocean's strand ; — 

And I looked far over the land, 

And down on the glorious deep. 

Beneath me, in gallant trim, 

A stately bark lay moored, 
The surge its dark side laving, — 
Gaily its flag was waving, 

And a pilot stood on board. 

And behold there came from the mountains 

A merry merry band; 
Bedecked with garlands bright, 
They seemed like spirits of light, 

As they, tripped along the strand. 

(38) 



THE DREAM. 

"Say, pilot, wilt thou take us?" 

"What nymphs be ye so gay?" 
" Earth's Joys and Pleasures are we, 
From earth we fain would flee, 

! bear us from earth away !" 

Then the pilot, he bade them enter; 
And they entered one by one. 
"But tell me, are here all? 
Are none left in bower or hall? 

And they answered, " There are none." 

Away ! then ; — the bark leaped forth, 

Unmoored from the anchor's thrall: 
And away she sped with a glorious motion, 
And I saw them vanish over the Ocean, — 
Earth's Joys and Pleasures all. 



THE PILGRIM. 



FROM SCHILLER. 

Life's first beams were bright around 
When I left my father's cot, 

Breaking every tie that bound me 
To that dear and hallowed spot. 

Childish hopes and youthful pleasures. 
Freely I renounced them all; 

Went in quest of nobler treasures, 
Trusting to a higher call. 

For to me a voice had spoken, 
And a Spirit seemed to say, 

Wander forth ; the path is broken ; 
Yonder, eastward lies thy way. 

Rest not till a golden portal 

Thou hast reached; — there enter in 
And what thou hast prized as mortal, 

There, immortal life shall win. 



THE PILGRIM. 



Evening came, and morn succeeded ; 

On I sped, and never tired; 
Cold, nor heat, nor storm I heeded; 

Boundless hope my soul inspired. 

Giant cliffs rose up before me ; 

Horrid wilds around me lay: 
O'er the cliffs my spirit bore me ; 

Through the wilds I forced my way 

Came to where a mighty river 
Eastward rolled its sullen tide ; 

Eorth I launched with bold endeavour, 
"Pilgrim stream, be thou my guide 

It hath brought me to the ocean: 
Now, upon the wide, wide sea, 

"Where 's the land of my devotion ? 
What I seek seems still to flee. 

Woe is me ! no path leads thither ; 

Earth's horizons still retreat; 
Yonder never will come hither, 

Sea and sky will never meet! 

4* 



LUTZOW'S WILD CHASE. 



FROM T H. KORNER. 

What gleams from yon wood in the bright sunshine ? 

Hear it nearer and nearer sounding; 
It moveth along in a lowering line, 
And wailing horns their shrill music combine, 

The hearer with terror astounding. 
Ask you whence those black horsemen ? what meaneth 

their race ? 
That is Liitzow's wild and desperate chase. 

What is it that flits through the forest shade. 
From mountain to mountain stealing? 

Now it lurks in a darkling ambuscade, 

Now the wild hurrah and the carfnonade 
O'er the fallen Frank are pealing. 

Ask you whence those black huntsmen, what game do 
they trace ? 

That is Lutzow's wild and desperate chase. 

(42) 



LUTZOW'S WILD CHASE. 



43 



Where yon vineyards bloom, where the Rhine waves 
dash, 

The tyrant had sought him a cover ; 
But sudden and swift, like the lightning's flash, 
The avenger plunges, the billows plash, 

And his strong arms have ferried him over. 
Ask you why those black swimmers the Rhine embrace ? 
That is Lutzow's wild and desperate chase. 



What conflict rages in yonder glen? 

What meaneth the broadswords' clashing ? 
'Tis the conflict of lion-hearted men, 
And the watch-fires of freedom are kindled again, 

The heavens are red with their flashing. 
Ask ye who those black warriors ? what foe do they 
face ? 

That is Lutzow's wild and desperate chase. 



Who yonder are smiling farewell to the light, 
Where the foe breathes his last execration ? 

Death's shadows have swathed their brows in night, 

But their hearts are true and their souls are bright, 
They have seen their country's salvation. 

Ask ye who are those struggling in Death's embrace ? 

That was Lutzow's wild and desperate chase. 



44 



LUTZOW'S WILD CHASE. 



Ay, the wild chase and the German chase, 

Let tyrants and hangmen shun it. 
But mourn not for us who have run our race, 
The country is free, and the day dawns apace, 

What though with our lives we have won it 
And be it proclaimed from race to race, 
That was Liitzow's wild and desperate chase. 



THE END. 



DESCRIPTION OF THE OUTLINES. 



I. 

For, with Joy's festive music ringing 
The child beloved it soon will greet, 
Upon his Life's first walk, beginning 
In the soft arms of Slumber sweet. 

In Germany the child is carried to the church a few days 
after birth to be baptized. And in this print the nurse is ap- 
proaching the church, followed by the family, and welcomed by 
the bell. A group of little ones look on with mingled curiosity 
and awe. The priest waits at the church door. In her way to 
the church, the nurse is just passing a cross, half hidden under 
roses, indicating the pains and joys of life, while a star, the orna- 
ment of some churchyard monument, is seen in the distance, the 
emblem of light and hope. 

n. 

his golden morning. 

This print is only indirectly suggested by Schiller. There is 
nothing which it represents in the poem. It tells its own story. 
The little girl, the playfellow of the boy, has prepared a spot for 
the rose-bush, which the boy is bringing her. He is exulting 
apparently in the fact that it has got a root, and will grow. 
Does the artist represent in this fact the affection of the child- 
ren for each other ? The father and mother of the little girl 
turn to him with a benignant look of welcome. The father of 
the boy accompanies his little son, and seems, by his look and 
attitude, to be saying : " Nothing would do but that he must 
come." 

III. 

The maiden's plays the proud boy scorneth, 
He rushes forth the world to roam. 

The boy has caught the ambition of manhood, and cares no 
more for planting rose-bushes. He is eager to go forth and see 



46 DESCRIPTION OF THE OUTLINES. 

the world. He is bidding his playmate and her family a hasty 
farewell. She weeps. Her mother warns him to be careful. 
The two other figures look on thoughtfully and with interest. 

IV. 

— — at last returneth 

A stranger in his father's home. 

The youth after an absence, during those years which work 
the greatest changes in the person, is standing once more, at 
evening, under the paternal roof. His parents do not recognise 
him, and he is filled with sadness as he marks the ravages of age. 

V. 

This is another plate suggested by the poem. It requires no 
explanation. At first sight, it seems as if the figures in the pre- 
vious illustration had started into life and motion. 

VI. 

And brilliant, in her youthful splendor, 
Like creature from some heavenly height, 
With cheeks all mantling, modest, tender, 
The maiden stands before his sight. 

We enter the garden again. The maiden stands struck at the 
sight of the tall stranger. She has let fall the water-pot with 
which she was nurturing the cherished rose-bush, which show3 
by its growth that it has not been neglected, and that the me- 
mory of her playfellow has been kept green and full of flowers. 
She has one of the roses in her bosom. The father and mother 
of the youth are bringing their son to see her; the father, with 
a man's feeling, is looking to see what the maiden thinks of the 
manly youth; the mother, with a woman's feeling, looks at her 
son, to see what he thinks of the maiden. 

VII. 

O tender longing ! hope the sweetest 
The golden time of young first love, 
The eye beholdeth heaven unveiling, 
Revels the heart in bliss above. 

The beauty of these illustrations must be lost upon any one 
who requires here any word of explanation. 



DESCRIPTION OF THE OUTLINES. 47 



VIII. 

Lovely in her ringlets straying 
Is the wreath that crowns the bride, 
When the merry church-bells playing, 
Call to Pleasure far and wide. 

There is no one too young or too old to be insensible to the 
interest which a bride awakens. The bride in this print may be 
recognised by her downcast eye, modest and thoughtful ; the 
bridegroom is the only one who is looking back from the proces- 
sion of men ; which is followed by the bride and her maids. 

IX. 

The chaste, gentle housewife, 

% % ^ ^ 

She teacheth the maidens, 
The boys she restraineth. 

Years have passed, and we see here the mother, surrounded 
by her little ones, whilst the father is out, " in hostile life toiling." 

X. 

And the father, with look elate, 
From the high, far-seeing gable, 
Surveys his blooming, broad estate. 

The successful householder is rejoicing in " his barns with their 
lofts overflowing." His wife, with a woman's prophetic tender- 
ness, is seeking to moderate his confidence. The lightning in 
the distance foretells a change of fortune. 

XI. 

Dost thou hear it from the tower moan? 
'T is th' alarm! 

% % % 3fr •sfc 

All is fleeing, saving, running ! 
The lightning has struck. The conflagration has broken out, 

XII. 

Whate'er the fire from him has torn, 
One comfort sweet is ever nearest. 
The heads he counteth of his dearest, 
And lo ! not one dear head is gone. 

Although the faces of the mother and the children express the 

exhaustion under which they are suffering, after the fright and 



48 DESCRIPTION OF THE OUTLINES. 

fatigue of the fire, yet the whole family, forming a group of 
monumental beauty, and the bright, up-turned face of the father, 
contrast finely with the desolation and ruin around them, and 
render this one of the most expressive of this series of poems. 

XIII. 

To holy earth's dark, silent bosom 

The husbandmen their seed consign, 
And hope that it will swell and blossom, 
And bless the sower by laws divine. 
Still costlier seed, in sorrow bringing, 
We hide within the lap of earth, 
. And hope that from the coffin springing, 
'T will bloom in brighter beauty forth. 

We miss much of the beauty of these illustrations if we fail to 
notice the accessories introduced to increase the point of their 
meaning — such as, in this print, the crescent moon and the 
falling leaves. 

XIV. 

Ah! it is the wife, the dear one, 
Ah! it is the faithful mother, 
Whom the angel dark is bearing 
From the husband's arms endearing, 
From the infant group afar. 

The rays of the setting sun glorify the cross which is borne 
before the bier, as it enters the church-yard. In the preceding 
print the church-yard is in the back-ground. Here it is reversed. 

XV. 

Peace, thou gentle, 
Sweetest grace, 
Hover, hover, 

Ever friendly o'er this place. 

A holy hermit is imploring the blessing and presence of Peace, 
and deprecating the horrid visions of War. 

XVI. 

Concordia we the bell will call, 

* # _ # * # 
Now it mounts on high ! 



